


Love in the time of Marmite

by sirona



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Food, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-05
Updated: 2011-03-05
Packaged: 2017-10-16 03:01:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/167720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirona/pseuds/sirona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur-is-a-magical-chef fic. Basically. And then there's Eames. And Marmite. But this is mainly a story about Love, always about Love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love in the time of Marmite

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by and co-written with weatherfront, whose mind I want to trufax live in, and finished by me. The beginning was no more than a snippet, which [weatherfront](http://weatherfront.livejournal.com/) gifted to the world of fandom like an exquisitely wrapped present; I was bowled over by the sheer whimsical joy of it, and I wanted to know what happened next _so much_ that I ended up writing it. Title by weatherfront, who thought she was being facetious, but ended up describing this thing to perfection. ♥ **Edit:** Now with [awesome shiny fanart](http://inception-art.livejournal.com/50706.html) by [red_rahl](http://red-rahl.livejournal.com/)!
> 
> Disclaimer: Inception belongs to Chris Nolan.

Tucked into the heart of this city is a restaurant.

The awning hangs low over the sidewalk, the single slit of a window. The brick walls are welcoming and the light glows warm, but it’s too small and too quiet to draw any attention, lost in the maze of alleys as it is. The door is painted red, a palm-sized sign at eye level.

 _Sehnsucht_ , it says.

Inside, Arthur turns from the stove, gripping the edges of a bowl with a dry dishrag.

“Careful, Ariadne,” he says. “It’s hot.”

Ariadne looks up from her textbook, pushes it aside to make room for the bowl. She leans in closer on her bar stool. The tiny room is already sweet with the smell of chowder, thick and creamy, but she inches her nose over the bowl anyway, and breathes in.

“God, yes,” she says, fervent. “Thank you, Arthur. I just-- I really needed this.”

“My pleasure,” says Arthur. He hands her a spoon. “I hope you enjoy it as much as last time.”

“I know I will, it smells just as good,” she says. “Exactly the way it should be, heavy on the potatoes. I can taste that hint of bacon already-- you’re a godsend, Arthur, honestly. I don’t know how I would have made it through school if Dana hadn’t told me about this place.”

“How is Dana doing?” asks Arthur, wiping his hands, resting his elbows on the counter.

“Much better without that asshole in her life,” says Ariadne. “You know, she still talks about it sometimes, that first time she came in here still raw from the break-up and you made her hiyayakko. When she came back to the room that evening, she said that your hiyayakko, it tasted like-- sorry, I can’t wait for this to cool, it smells too good--”

She stirs her spoon in the steaming clam chowder, and mouths the coating of soup. She closes her eyes, sagging a little in her seat, letting the taste fill her.

“Just like home,” she says. “That’s what Dana said.”

“I’m glad,” says Arthur, and his lips soften into a smile. “I remember you cried quite a bit, the first time you were here.”

“I feel like crying right now,” says Ariadne. “I don’t know how you do it-- it tastes like every winter night I remember from home, when the sun would start to set before five and the boats would come in, and it was dark out already when the whole house began to smell like my mother’s cooking. Like this chowder. Oh, no, I _am_ going to cry.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Arthur tells her, voice pitched to a conspiratory whisper. “Most everyone does, in here.”

“How do you do it?” she asks, sniffling. “Is it magic?”

“You know,” says Arthur, “maybe it is.”

The bell on the inside of the door chimes, and they raise their eyes to see a man stumble in. There’s a bruise on his cheek under the dust of stubble, and a rim of dried blood at his collar. He scratches at the back of his head, and the sleeve of his jacket flaps open, a long jagged cut down its length.

“Sorry,” he says, “are you open?”

“Yes, but we don’t serve drinks here,” says Arthur. “We’re a restaurant, despite what it looks like.”

“I know,” says the stranger, British by the sound of him. He pulls up a stool at the far end of the bar.

“Were you looking for something in specific?” Arthur asks the man, arms crossed.

“No, I just heard,” he says, rubbing at the crusted blood on his jaw, “I heard you were in the business of comforting weary hearts.”

Arthur quirks an eyebrow, at that. He taps his elbow thoughtfully, then wets a clean dishrag, wringing it out before handing it to the man.

“You can probably tell, but-- thank you,” he says, dabbing at his chin, “I’m a long way from home right now.”

He holds up a hand for Ariadne in greeting, and Ariadne nods, but curls a protective arm around her bowl of chowder just to be safe.

“I have ale in the back,” says Arthur. “Care for a pint while you wait?”

“I thought you didn’t-- yeah, alright,” he says. “That’ll be just the thing.”

 _Oh, it will_ , Ariadne thinks, as they watch Arthur disappear into the pantry. _You don’t even know it yet._

Ariadne sees the man's eyes dart to her as he moves on to cleaning the cut in his arm with long, careful swipes of the cloth. For all he appears like someone just threw him into a ditch, Ariadne gets a strange, unfounded but nonetheless prevailing feeling of kindness mingling with the sadness on his face. The man smiles at her.

"Eames," he says, extending a hand again.

"Ariadne," she replies, and this time she chances it and takes his hand. It's chilled, and she stifles an impulse to rub it between her palms until it warms again. "And this is Arthur," she says instead as Arthur returns with the promised pint. Eames eyes it longingly.

"Thanks, mate," he sighs, reaching for it while Arthur turns to the chopping board and grabs an onion.

There's silence for a moment before Eames hisses between his teeth and puts the pint back down. Arthur turns around worriedly as Eames presses the backs of his fingers carefully to the outside of his bottom lip. "Must've cut it on my teeth," Eames mutters, looking embarrassed.

Ariadne hesitates, but she's never been one for holding herself back. "What happened?" she asks, composing her face into a picture of polite curiosity. Arthur turns back to his chopping with swift, efficient glides of the knife, but he's half-turned towards them even as he swaps the onion for a clove of garlic and then a carrot.

"Just a misunderstanding with a business associate," Eames answers off-handedly; there's no reason to let them guess just how close he came to kicking the bucket tonight. He picks up his pint again, drinking more carefully this time. It tastes delicious, a hint of brown sugar on the roof of his mouth as he swallows.

Arthur throws the onion into a big pot on the stove, adding the garlic a couple of minutes later; the sizzling fills the quiet room, complimenting the comfortable silence.

"It's just like Yusuf said," Eames says, looking around curiously. "He told me you cooked an amazing aloo gobi masala for him, just like his grandmother used to make." He'd also been half-starved by the time Eames finally caught up with the thugs that had taken him and busted him out of the filthy, rancid-smelling cell, half-carrying him into the 'borrowed' jeep parked haphazardly outside the bunker. It was nothing short of amazing that any part of Yusuf's drugged ramblings had penetrated the fog of fury wreathing his mind, let alone stuck with him.

"Tall fellow, wild brown hair? I think I remember him. A few months ago, wasn't it?" Arthur asks as he tips the lamb mince in the pot and stirs vigorously before assembling some chicken stock and a glass of red wine, ready to be added.

"That's the one," Eames says, rubbing gingerly at his chin. "I think I caught him about a week or so afterwards, and he actually got teary-eyed when he talked about it." He eyes Arthur as he pulls out a half-full bottle of Worcestershire sauce. "Shepherd's pie, Arthur? Really? I mean, I trust Yusuf, and Ariadne here looks like she's in gastronomical heaven, but shepherd's pie is kind of tough to get right even back home."

Ariadne spares him a smirk over her spoon, swallowing her mouthful. "Famous last words, my friend!" she tells him with absolute conviction.

Arthur looks at him from under eyelashes that should be illegal, but says nothing; there's a curve to his mouth that does all the talking for him. Eames' heart speeds up without warning.

He watches as Arthur adds the stock and the wine and moves on to peeling three large potatoes. "ETA twenty minutes," Arthur says mildly.

"Really?" Eames asks, surprised. "That's a lot less time than it used to take my mum to make." The thought doesn't seem to bother him; he puts down the now-filthy cloth and shrugs his ruined jacket off, making himself comfortable.

"Yeah, and how many people did she cook it for?"

"Five," Eames admits ruefully. "I take your point."

“Does that thing need stitches?" Arthur asks Ariadne over his shoulder. She puts her spoon down with an air of irritation that her high has been interrupted, but bends closer to look at the gash in the hazy light of the lantern. "Nah, just a bit of disinfectant and a strap of gauze should do the trick," she says, leaning back again.

Eames throws the open textbook a look; what he'd taken to be some eccentric graphics resolve themselves into tissue samples. "Thank, doc," he says, suddenly exhausted. The smells coming out of the pot tease at his nostrils, and his throat goes thick with remembered warmth of his mum's smile. He hasn't thought about that in years. He sniffs the air and looks at Arthur suspiciously.

"Yep, it's magic," Ariadne confirms, turning back to the remains of her chowder. "You'll see."

In twenty minutes' time, Eames is slouching at the bar with a spoon in his hand, looser and lighter with the bit of ale in him. Arthur's just now pulling the baking dish out of the oven, the slim stretch of his forearms wading in quilted mitts.

"There you go," says Arthur, setting the whole pan in front of Eames. "I hope it's to your liking."

Something shakes loose and comes unsettled in Eames's chest, when the smell of it really hits him. There's a certain something there beyond the hunger in the pit of his stomach, something about the meal that seems more than merely delicious. He looks at Ariadne, who grins around a mouthful of potato; he looks at Arthur, and Arthur looks back, quiet, just waiting.

His spoon cuts through the golden expanse of the crust, steam curling out from the inside as he scoops up a bite. And when he touches his tongue to it, god, when he _tastes_ the shepherd's pie--

It's home again, nightfall, his mother's voice hoarse with a full day spent curbing three growing boys. _Don't wait for your father,_ she calls, _I'll warm something up for him later._ And it's rain and the cold outside, their dog trekking mud across the floor, jostling with his brothers with their spoons in their hands to get as close to the pan as possible. The scent of flour baked into his mother's hair, when he buried his nose in it and pretended he was a younger child than he was.

He draws in a sharp breath, and only notices the tears in his eyes when he sees Arthur's face as a blur before him. He hastily wipes them away with the back of his hand, and in his cleared vision, Arthur's there with a glass of milk.

"Haven't you got more of that ale," asks Eames, still too choked for his own liking. "Don't I look a bit too old for milk?"

"You don't have to be," says Arthur.

Their fingers brush when Eames takes the glass from him, and he's almost too afraid to taste the shepherd's pie again, afraid of what it could reduce him to. So he swigs the milk down for liquid courage, and he narrows his eyes at Arthur.

"How'd you know?" he demands. "Any of this-- how'd you know to use chicken stock-- how'd you know my mum never mashed the potatoes too creamy? And you gave me a _spoon_ , gave me the whole pan-- like you _know_ me. Like you-- god, I don't understand."

"Do you like it?" asks Arthur.

"Oh, Christ, yes," groans Eames. "It's bloody perfect."

"I expect you to finish it," says Arthur, and his tone is stern but his eyes are warm.

Eames brings the spoon to his mouth, chews and swallows, and he feels like he could stop running. Arthur fills his glass with milk again and exchanges a small smile with Ariadne.

\---

It's long past dusk when Ariadne finally sighs and closes her textbook, slipping off the stool with a resigned look in her eyes. "I'd best go," she says unhappily. "Have to be up at 6.30am tomorrow for the test."

"Best of luck, love," Eames says easily, making a show of looking at his watch and picking up his shredded jacket. His movements are slow, almost drugged with an unsettling mixture of bone-deep contentment and vague regret. "I should probably get going, too," he adds, watching as Arthur finishes wiping down the counters and drops the rag at the sink, turning around to look at them.

Ariadne stops in the process of picking up her bag. "Hey, are we-- I mean, are you staying around here for a while, or... Should I be saying goodbye right now?" she asks, only vaguely bemused. It was part of Arthur's particular brand of magic that people who came through the narrow door of this place felt closer to the other patrons than to some of their oldest friends.

Eames picks at the torn cuff of his sleeve. "I hadn't meant to, no... But, I think maybe-- yeah, I'll be sticking around." He winces a little. "Suppose that means I'd better look for a place to stay, at least for tonight."

Ariadne frowns in distress. "It's kind of late already, I don't know how many places still have vacancies... I'd offer our sofa, but Dana's brother is visiting for the week, and it's already taken."

Eames smiles at her reassuringly. His heart feels lighter than it has in years, full of possibilities, full of a kind of optimism he's not sure he's ever really felt -- certainly not since those early days filled with the warmth of his mum at home and his brothers at his back. "I'll find somewhere," he says, and means it.

Arthur watches the two exchange promises of meeting again here, and feels a curious kind of pressure in his sternum, somewhere behind his heart. It's the same tightening that tells him what to reach for as soon as a customer comes through the door; it's as familiar to him as his own skin, only this time it's nothing to do with food.

The door closes behind Ariadne and Eames turns back to look at him again. The weariness he came in with is gone from his eyes, and he stands like a weight has unexpectedly lifted from his shoulders, leaving him brand new. Arthur has never been able to stop himself from following that sneaking feeling; he's never really wanted to. He stopped thinking about it the first time he saw the far-away look in his father's eyes when he'd placed a plate of spaghetti bolognese with a dash of parmesan in front of him.

So he doesn't stop to reconsider when that feeling makes him say, "Why don't you stay with me tonight? Then tomorrow, if you want, I can help you look for a place."

Eames looks at him sharply; there's something painful shaking loose in his eyes. Arthur wonders with a sharp twist of his heart when the last time was that someone stood up for him, or offered him a kindness he did not have to work for.

"That would be... If you're sure, I wouldn't want to put you to the trouble," Eames says, falling back to a studied politeness that Arthur hates with a sudden, sharp violence he does not understand.

"I asked, didn't I? Let me just get my coat and turn off the gas switch."

\---

The night has gotten colder in the hours Eames had spent inside the cozy warmth of the hidden-away restaurant, and his arm twinges sharply when the cut-open blood vessels contract with the chill. Thankfully, they only have to walk a few blocks to reach the red-brick apartment building that Arthur turns towards. The neighbourhood is quiet, vibrantly green with vegetation growing in boxes on people's wrought-iron balconies. The vague scent of lilac teases his senses, adding to the surreal feel of the whole day so far.

When Arthur unlocks the front door of his flat, he flips the lights on and immediately walks off to the right of the small vestibule, pushing a door open and flicking the light inside that, too. Eames toes off his shoes while he waits, taking off his jacket again and rolling up his sleeve to inspect the damage. The gash is no longer bleeding, but it has the sickly grey tinge that promises vast unpleasantness if left untreated.

"In here," Arthur calls from the room that turns out to be the bathroom. Eames takes a cautious step inside the cramped space and is pointed to the rim of the bath tub. "Just sit there for a moment while I..." Arthur unpacks what looks like an extremely well-stocked first-aid kit. Eames does as he's told.

He hisses sharply when the cotton ball soaked with iodine runs carefully over the jagged cut. Arthur presses gently to make sure the iodine gets inside properly before he takes a long piece of gauze and wraps the lower half of Eames' forearm in it.

"It's not too tight?" he asks as he's getting ready to tie it off.

"No, it's... It's perfect," Eames says; he can hear the wonder in his own voice, because he's sure as hell not talking about the gauze anymore. The way Arthur smiles at him in response feels like something out of a half-remembered dream, longed for but long forgotten.

"You should probably keep that away from water for tonight," Arthur says, and tosses Eames an armful of fabric. "But feel free to wipe yourself up if you like, and you can change into that. Hopefully it'll fit you."

In the privacy of the bathroom, Eames peers at himself in the mirror. There are still smudges of blood under his collar, and that bruise isn't fading anytime soon. But -- he thinks -- he looks better than he has in ages, a little less grey, maybe a little less haunted. A little less out of breath.

What must be Arthur's biggest shirt is still too small for him, stretching tight across his shoulders and chest. But it's well-worn and soft to the touch, hem threadbare, and Eames rubs it absently as he listens to the sounds outside the bathroom door. It's been a long day, and one of the strangest he's ever had; that's no small feat, considering how many times he's waken up facedown in heaps of rot, been chased off of ledges by the sound of bullets whizzing past his head. But here he is in Arthur's flat with no idea where to go, what to do, or who Arthur _is_ , even. With all his life spent in uncertainty, he's never been this lost before. And yet, somehow, this quiet calm that floods him--

"Are you done?" comes Arthur's voice.

"Yeah, I've finished," calls Eames, stuffing his discarded clothes into the rubbish bin. "Be right out."

Arthur's still moving about in the kitchen, setting a plate of something on the table. He motions for Eames to sit, and pulls out a chair for himself.

"It's not much, since it's not been too long since dinner," says Arthur. "But you probably don't feel like going to bed yet, not at this hour-- I could get out some wine to go with this, if you're interested."

Arranged on the plate are half-moon slivers of chorizo, stark against the white of the china. Eames wonders, at that. He's an Englishman born and bred, and though he hasn't been back since he left -- tender and eighteen, what seems like a thousand years ago -- none of the other countries he's wandered through have felt like home to him. Nothing he misses enough to dream about, beyond idle memories of cheap casinos and banana daiquiris in the sun. Chorizos aren't _his_ , the same way that shepherd's pie might be, or a good brew of ale.

His face must show some of his confusion, and Arthur rests his chin in one hand, saying, "Try some. It's good."

"I'm sure it is," says Eames, and takes a slice, "but personally, I don't really--"

The meat melts on his tongue, and Eames _remembers_.

Chorizo picante, turning his whole mouth warm. It was summer, the first time he'd ever been paid a cut. He took his parents to Spain, eager to play the successful son, his brothers still in school and his pockets heavy with his paycheck. He thought they were awed by him, that they were proud. The three of them sampled chorizo cured in the Iberian sun, washed it down with pitchers of sweet sangria, and it was only on the night before they left for home that his father beckoned him out to the balcony. _We won't ask how you paid for this,_ his father said, _but whatever it is, please stop, for your mother's sake._ They could smell the blood on his hands. And after he drove them to the airport, he went straight past the border into Portugal without pausing to rest, straight into another job that landed him on a mob doctor's operating table with two broken ribs and a punctured lung.

But before that, before all of that, chorizo picante and the summer sun through his father's hair, his mother's laugh. His heart fit to burst with triumph, the spice of the chorizo sharp in his nose.

"Fuck, oh, god," says Eames, digging the heel of his hand into his temple. "It's just like that vacation. I remember them smiling for me."

"Something happen in Spain?" asks Arthur.

"It ended a bit of a mess," says Eames, "but for that one, blissful week, I was everything I ever wanted to be. I was good to them. My parents-- my father especially, he loved the chorizo. Just like this."

Arthur peels a slice of it away from the plate, and holds it up to the light overhead, contemplating the marbled pattern of its surface.

"Sounds like a good memory," he says. "Sometimes I wonder, you know. What something so important tastes like to someone who remembers it."

Eames is startled by how wistful Arthur sounds, the lightbulb casting shadows through his lashes. Heart racing, he traces with his eyes the curve of Arthur's cheek, the length of his arm beneath his rolled-up sleeve. And with some sort of desperate, misguided desire to give something back to him, Eames reaches out, wrapping his hand around Arthur's wrist. Arthur's pulse is a steady thrum under his skin.

"Like _hunger_ ," says Eames. "Like you could never get enough."

He pulls Arthur's hand in toward him, and tugs the chorizo out of Arthur's fingers with his teeth, swallowing away the lean and the fat, the good and the bad. And because it tastes like hunger, because it tastes like the promise of going home, he licks at the pads of Arthur's fingers, down each long digit to where it meets his palm. Like he could never get enough. And it's not the way he means to say thank you, or the way he means to pay him, however Arthur collects his strange debts-- but he runs his tongue along every fine bone, sucking away every last bit of salt, because it's the only way he knows how to answer Arthur's question, how to show him just what it feels like, what it tastes like.

But as he licks into the groove between Arthur's fingers, he feels Arthur's hand flinch and shudder, and he glances up, unsure if he's strayed too far into rudeness. He doesn't expect-- he doesn't expect to see Arthur look like _that_ , his lips parted wet, eyes dark and unsteady as they meet his. Eames's own hand twitches, his thumb pressing into the race of Arthur's pulse, and Arthur makes a little sound in his throat that turns all of Eames fever-hot.

 _Shit,_ he thinks. _Shit, shit, shit._

"Arthur," Eames croaks, raising his free hand to frame Arthur's face, to trail a thumb over beautifully sculpted cheekbones, to stroke along his eyebrow in wonder. How could this man possibly-- but he wants him, desperately; for the first time in his life, he doesn't want to take, he wants to _give_ , everything, offer himself for the taking, let this man have anything he wants from him. "I-- You probably don't-- I don't mean to, honestly, I-- Please, will you just let me--" he trails off; sliding his fingers into thick brown hair that should have no right to be this soft, he tugs gently, half-rising off his chair and slowly (so slowly, plenty of time for Arthur to push him away, except he doesn't) pressing his lips to Arthur's.

Arthur makes this noise in this throat like he's being torn in two, leans into the kiss, opens to it with an ease that leaves Eames breathless and adrift. His thumb is still stroking over Arthur's pulse -- he feels it jumping, pounding, like it's trying to escape through the thin skin of Arthur's fine-boned wrist.

He can taste a sweetness on his tongue that's like nothing he's eaten tonight; paradoxically, it makes his head swim the most, only this time it's not his mum and dad's faces that fill his mind; it's nothing concrete, it's just the feel of lying in the meadow he'd found when he was fifteen, where he'd snuck out to one morning after a sleepless night during summer break, the feel of dew on his bare feet, the smell of fresh grass, the way it tickled his ears when he sprawled in it to gaze at the slowly pinking dawn sky and wished with all his heart for something out of reach that he couldn't name.

Arthur's other hand lifts and tangles in his hair, dips his head to the side as he slips his tongue inside Eames' mouth, teasing and licking and taking. A desperate sound tears itself out of his throat, and Eames feels weak with need; he clutches at Arthur's forearm to keep himself grounded.

"Anything," he hears himself murmur in Arthur's mouth, "anything you want, please, Arthur." _Who are you,_ he wants to say, _who the hell are you, how the hell was I so lucky to find you, how the hell am I supposed to leave you alone after_ this?

Arthur pulls away, little gasps of breath teasing along Eames' mouth and chin. It feels so unspeakably right that Eames should kiss him; it feels imperative that they get closer. His lips tingle and his tongue feels too big for his mouth, dry with desperation. He watches apprehension chase the fog of lust from Eames' eyes when minutes pass and Arthur doesn't move -- how could he move, though, when he feels this paralysed with emotion he can barely contain? He traces the bruise on Eames' cheek with a shaky hand, choking on tenderness that comes out of nowhere, blindsides him and makes him want to wrap this man up in his softest blanket, take him to bed, crowd in behind him and hold him close until that haunted look he sported when Arthur first saw him is a long-gone memory.

He wants to feed him strawberries and cream; he wants to make him apple crumble and the lightest custard he knows how to; wants to wake up to his face so many times that he stops being surprised by the hazel that lurks in the green-grey eyes (though he doubts that will ever happen). Is that what his mother had meant, that one time he'd been four and curious about the whole world, when he'd asked her why she loved his daddy?

Eames watches him with wary eyes when Arthur rubs his thumb over the crease between his eyebrows, smoothing it gently away. "You shouldn't frown so much," he says fondly, smiling a little at the way Eames' eyes soften in response.

The pause gives the fog of desperate need a chance to thin, to lift a little. A thin thread of reality reasserts itself as Eames looks, really looks at all that's lurking in Arthur’s eyes, plain as if he's inside Arthur's head already. By rights it should _terrify_ him to be this close to someone, to let someone, no matter how long he's known them, make themselves at home so deep under his skin -- but it somehow scares him even more just how unafraid he is by all that's unfurling to life between them. This is a stranger; he's in a stranger's flat, in a strange city, a beautiful stranger that knows him better than he knows himself, and for all the unexpected peace and contentment he feels right now, this cannot end well. He can see a glimpse of his future in Arthur's eyes -- sees how much he can come to love this man, if he but lets himself -- to distraction, beyond common sense, beyond any sense of self-preservation. Arthur's touch sears his skin where he strokes his bruised cheek with careful fingers; the cut inside his lip throbs from their kiss, and he hadn't even noticed.

This is moving so fast that he's lost touch with the ground under his feet. If he takes Arthur to bed now, he couldn't possibly imagine what the morning would bring; moreover, he knows in his bones that he would never want to leave this beguiling man's side again.

He gathers the last threads of his self-preservation and makes himself drop his hands, pull back; the effort it takes leaves him weak and shaking. He sees the sharp flick of disappointment in Arthur's eyes before Arthur starts to pull himself together, close himself off. He reaches for Arthur's wrist again -- the most innocuous place he can think to touch him without going up in flames all over again, and even that simple touch is almost too much. He finds Arthur’s pulse on the inside of his wrist, rubs it gently with unsteady fingers as he looks at him, not dodging his eyes, letting him see how unsure, how lost Eames feels right now, cut adrift from the life he thought he liked, tethering on the brink of something new, something precious. Arthur's almost physical withdrawal stops, hesitates, retreats until his tense muscles soften under Eames' touch.

"I'm sorry," Eames murmurs, feeling wretched at the distressed look that flits over Arthur’s face. "Just -- not yet. Is that okay?" he asks tentatively, bracing himself for Arthur's rejection. God knows Arthur has every right -- he doesn't know Eames, that's Eames’ one advantage. If Arthur had any idea of the kind of man he is, the things he’s done, he knows he'd have no right to hope that Arthur would ever consider letting Eames so much as touch him. He's not a good person; he's under no illusions. He’d made his peace with it long ago; and now here’s this man, who makes him wish he was somebody else, someone even half-way decent, someone worthy of what Arthur’s bestowing on him without the slightest hesitation.

But Arthur doesn't know him; Eames feels desperately guilty for relying on it, but he hopes Arthur will take the time to learn him as he wants to be, not the man his poor choices have shaped. Arthur's smile is small but genuine, and it feels like a benediction.

"I'll make up the sofa bed," Arthur says, and Eames hears the forgiveness in his voice. It makes him go limp with relief.

"Thank you," he says, grateful beyond words for the gift of simple understanding that he hasn't earned, but is nevertheless offered.

\---

He lies on the narrow, uncomfortable pull-out bed an hour later and tries to make himself drift off to sleep by sheer force of will. He's utterly drained, exhaustion licking greedily at the shreds of his consciousness, but his mind won't stop churning. He'd never meant to stick around afterwards; this was supposed to be a simple job -- get in, get out, get paid. Instead, it had turned into a screw-up of epic proportions. At least he hadn't used his real name; if Ivanov and his thugs nursed a grudge, they'd be looking for an Edmond Graves, not a William Eames. First thing tomorrow he's going to have to change his appearance. That’s easy enough to do; he'll buzz his hair down to a crew cut, he'd have to shave -- his cheekbone is going to love him for that one -- he's going to pluck half his eyebrows away, and he'll get hold of some foundation to narrow his face some. It'll do the trick -- it had already, too many times to mention. He'll have to develop an American accent whenever he goes out, too, at least for a while.

Lost and adrift as he feels, to his surprise the one thing he doesn't feel is alone. After all these years running solo, knowing that someone has his back is a novel experience, but every cell in his body screams at him that Arthur is someone to be trusted. Eames has learned through painful experience that he’d do better to listen to his gut feeling -- he'd known something was off about that job, but things had been going so smoothly lately that he'd grown complacent, and he's paying for it now. Only the fact that, for some unknown reason, his abysmally bad luck has allowed Arthur to enter his life and turn it upside down stops him from writing the whole thing off as a bad job.

He has no personal belongings to speak of; besides, it wouldn't be safe to go back to his car to pick up his stuff, not for a few weeks, and he has his doubts as to whether they'd still be there when he goes to look. He has a few fake IDs on him, purely because he’s just that paranoid (and with good reason, as it had turned out), and he's pretty sure that his bank accounts wouldn't be monitored -- but just in case, he thinks he'll be using Lucinda Hale's account for the time being. He makes a mental note to secure a strawberry blonde wig tomorrow until he has time to forge the authorisation letter he'd need to get full access to the funds in it.

Plans made, he lets his thoughts drift back to the man who draws him like a lodestone. Arthur’s generosity staggers him, makes him feel stupid and sluggish, makes him want to lean on the narrow-but-sturdy shoulders Arthur offers him without question, without expectation, his only underlying purpose that of helping Eames find his feet. He doesn't understand how anyone could live like that, putting themselves on the line constantly for the well-being of others. Arthur makes him feel intensely, instinctively protective, makes him want to shield him from the world, to keep him whole and hale and happy. It's not an emotion Eames is in any way familiar with outside his own long-suffering family, and he doesn't quite know how to cope with it; but cope he must, because there's no way in hell he's giving this up now that he's found it. And if there comes a time that Arthur truly understands the sort of man Eames is and, quite rightly shows him the door -- well, he'll have to deal with it then.

His eyelids grow heavy with the first good decision in what feels like his whole life, and he drifts to sleep to the sound of the first raindrops pitter-pattering on the closed windows of the small flat.

\---

Arthur stands at the threshold of his bedroom, watching as the first rays of the sun wash over Eames’ sleeping form. His breathing is slow and even, his face slack in sleep. He has curled in on himself sometime during the night, hands tucked under his chin and knees drawn up, as if to protect his vulnerable underbelly; he looks equal parts serene and defensive, and Arthur can’t help thinking of the look in his eyes last night when Eames had asked him for time, half-desperate and half-hopeless, as if he was steeling himself for the rejection he thought was coming. It makes Arthur grit his teeth against an overwhelming impulse to cry. He doesn’t understand why this man, whom he’s known for all of thirteen hours, affects him so powerfully -- much more than his usual empathy allows for. He feels as if he’s known Eames all of his life -- and he wishes he had, wishes he could have been there for him somehow, because the sadness he senses in him is overwhelming even from an outsider’s perspective.

Eames is here now, though, whatever strange chance brought him into Arthur’s life, and Arthur’s going to do whatever it takes to keep him; and failing that, to help him get his life back on track. He only hopes Eames will want to stick around once he gets there.

He pads softly into his kitchen and considers the cupboards with a thoughtful look. Tea, he thinks. Earl Grey, with two sugars and a hint of milk, not lemon, the fragrant bergamot-scented steam suffusing the air with memories of misty mornings, dew still hanging onto blades of grass for hours after dawn, fracturing the light into thousands of tiny stars and rainbows. He puts the kettle on, opens the top cupboard and fetches the tin of tea leaves, goes to close it... and hesitates. He reaches inside again, well back, and roots around until his fingers close on a small round jar. He pulls it out and stares at it for a moment, a little winded. It’s sat in his cupboard for close to a year, since his mother had given it to him on one of his rare trips back home. He’d been surprised -- he’d never tasted Marmite in his life, never even heard of it before his mom had pressed the jar into his hand that last morning at breakfast. He’d looked at her strangely back then, confused and bewildered, and she’d smiled at him kindly.

“You’ll know when to open it,” she’d said, her usual fond smile tinged with a wistfulness Arthur hadn’t paid much mind to, thoughts already on the journey back.

Now, it’s as if there’s an internal compass in his gut, guiding him straight to the little jar as if it’s true north. He doesn’t understand it, but that’s not unusual in his line of work. He just knows that he needs to make some toast, spread it liberally with butter, add a thin layer of the tar-like brown stuff and put it on a plate with a few slices of freshly sliced cheddar. He knows it with a certainty that resonates through his entire being; he doesn’t question it, just like always.

\---

Eames wakes to the quiet clatter of dishes and utensils coming in through the door-less arch that leads to the small kitchen. He yawns as he considers the fact that he’d slept better than he had in years in this strange flat that feels like home already. Not that he knows what a home feels like -- the decades away from his have diluted the memory until only a thread of it remains. Nevertheless, he thinks this is what a home should feel like.

The early morning light glints off various reflective surfaces scattered around the room -- a deep mauve vase that shares table-space with a pile of hardcover books; a stained-glass candle holder flickering from a shelf on the wall opposite the window; a silver picture frame sending a shaft of sunlight right into his eyes. He sits up slowly, stretching sore muscles and cataloguing pains and bruises from yesterday’s altercation. To his surprised relief, there aren’t all that many.

He makes a beeline to the loo before walking into the kitchen, moments after the kettle whistles on the stove. Arthur is standing at the counter, arranging pieces of toast onto the same plate that housed last night’s chorizo. Eames is almost afraid of what the morning will bring -- anything from more food-inspired revelations to a change of heart.

Arthur smiles when he turns his head and sees him. “Good morning,” he says, placing a large mug with a crane etched into its side on Eames’ side of the table. Eames’ mouth is still shaping around a reply when Arthur reaches for the plate and puts it by the mug. Eames’ knees give out; he sinks in the chair he’s just pulled out, eyes glazed--

He’s back in London, two weeks off his eighteenth birthday and laughing at Yusuf’s smiling face across the table. Yusuf, only six months older than Eames but already half-way through his first year of uni, living up the student life in a miserable block of flats, the best accommodation he can afford on his parents’ small contribution and a half-time job at the nearby bar, where he mixes up cocktails like he’s back at the lab. Eames has spent four hours on the train to come see him for the weekend, all he can spare away from his grandmother’s side as she wastes away from an illness that comes with medical bills that leave him dry-mouthed when his control lapses and he thinks about it.

For that one weekend, though, he’s free, blissfully unaware of what he’s going to find when he comes back, nothing but an empty bed, the sheets stripped and flung in a balled-up pile in the corner, his mother’s reddened eyes and his father’s tight-lipped silence. A month later Eames will get on a ferry and never look back, until years later when Yusuf will call him with an interesting proposition that will become a waking nightmare, but that will be the reason Eames clutches the steering wheel for dear life as he listens to his feverish friend babble about a young man with magic hands, about an aloo gobi masala that had made him miss home with a vicious pang of longing.

Yusuf laughs fiendishly at the face Eames makes when he takes his first bite of Marmite on toast and washes it hurriedly down with milky Earl Grey tea, before he takes mercy on Eames and pulls thin slices of cheddar cheese from the mostly-empty fridge in the corner of the tiny kitchen. They sit in the cramped space and talk, like they used to back at school; Yusuf spins tall tales of glittering night-time London, of pretty girls and boys that vie for his favour at the bar, and they make plans to share a flat next year when Eames moves down here for his place at UCL. Back then the world is still bright and shiny, and opportunity waits to be found around every corner; before it all gets dark and twisted, before running and running and running.

When he resurfaces with a strangled ‘fucking hell’ on his lips, he realises he’s only been drifting in his own head for a minute or two at the most. His tea is still hot when he wraps shaky hands around the mug and lifts it to take a bracing drink, almost burning his tongue and not caring as the forgotten taste fills him. He looks up into Arthur’s eyes, patient and undemanding, giving him the space to think, to feel, to remember, keeping him safe while he peels away at himself and throws layer after heavy layer of accumulated filth off his shoulders for good. He remembers what it was like to be that kid, plans and hopes he’d thought lost forever bubbling to the surface like clear water in a swamp. He gives Arthur a tentative smile. He thinks he can do this thing, if he has Arthur beside him.

With that in mind, he reaches a tentative hand for a piece of toast, places a slice of cheddar on it and takes a big bite, moaning in the back of his throat when the taste hits him. He swallows, puts the toast down, takes hold of his cup again, and starts talking.

Arthur listens. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t want to interrupt, but he doesn’t try to hide his reactions, either -- Eames is opening himself to him, letting Arthur see inside to the good, the bad, the rotten, the hidden-away, the buried deep down that can still be salvaged. Eames doesn’t ask again how Arthur knew to put all those ingredients together, in that particular combination; he seems to have accepted it as given, as a part of who Arthur is that needs no explanation. Arthur is beyond grateful about it, because it’s not like he can explain it, even to himself.

\---

Later, after Eames has showered, carefully washing the thin crust of dried plasma that has seeped through the ripped skin, Arthur walks him three blocks west to a red-brick building much like his own.

“Laurie says the flat’s up on the fourth floor, facing South, so it’s plenty light during the day,” Arthur says, looking up at the familiar wrought iron balconies that Eames is starting to suspect are the trademark of this neighbourhood.

“I still can’t believe there’s an empty flat just when I need it. This whole thing is starting to feel more and more like divine intervention,” Eames says, and he’s only half-joking. His eyes feel a little dry from emotions he’s been holding in check by the tips of his fingers, and he shields them with his palm when he turns to look at Arthur, outlined in the morning sunshine like a strange sort of guardian angel.

“I suppose it does. I’ve pretty much gotten used to it,” Arthur muses.

“What do you mean?”

Arthur eyes him for a minute before smiling faintly. “Things like that kind of have a habit of following me around. I’ve learned not to question the strange twists of fate that people keep telling me happen to them when they meet me. I don’t see how I could possibly be the catalyst, but it happens far too often to write it off as coincidence.”

Eames looks at him for a long time, aware that he’s smiling stupidly. “Maybe it’s magic, just like Ariadne said,” he says, reaching over to catch Arthur’s hand and run a callused thumb over his knuckles.

Arthur flushes a little, two vivid spots of pink high on those perfect cheekbones. He looks surprised and pleased, as if Eames has given him an unexpected gift, and Eames thinks he would do a great many things to put that look on Arthur’s face.

“Come on,” Arthur says, ducking his face to hide a smile and starting forward, not letting go of Eames’ hand as he tugs him in his wake.

The flat is smaller than Arthur’s, decorated in shades of cream and scrubbed scrupulously clean, a perfect blank canvas for Eames to infuse until it shapes itself around him. He has the strangest feeling that the space is dormant, waiting for him to tell it what to be, waiting for _him_ to make up his mind as to what _he_ wants to be, too.

He’s starting to learn to take things like that in his stride, a part of the ‘Arthur’ experience, so he goes with it -- takes the lease for the next three months, short enough to not feel trapped but long enough to assuage this sudden need to reassure Arthur that he’s not going anywhere.

There are branches of five different banks not far from his new place, nestled in the midst of the vibrant mess of shops, restaurants, florists, bookshops, cafes and bakers that is the area’s main street. Arthur’s restaurant is not far off -- they pass it on their way to the chemist’s, where Eames buys tweezers and a full set of make-up, bleach-blond hair dye, a can of hairspray and a truly horrifying red curly wig. Arthur wants to comment, but contends himself with trying not to laugh at the triumphant look on Eames’ face when he discovers the latter.

It’s strange how the need for subterfuge reassures instead of worries him -- he supposes it’s a sign that Eames is serious about making his home here, where Arthur is allowed to reach out and touch him any time he wants. He drinks in Eames’ newfound serenity, the way he relaxes his guard around Arthur, the way he’s content to receive everything Arthur chooses to give and not demand more. Arthur may be in the business of dishing out peace, one plate-full at a time, but he’s never gotten any for himself, a space where he can just be, where someone accepts him without question or suspicion or fear of the strange way he works.

He does, however, laugh himself sick when Eames flounces out of his new bedroom a few hours later, wearing what Arthur’s been told is Lucinda Hale, all bouncy hair and pouting coral pink lips and awfully clashing clothes. The shopping trip is paying off; the terrible, terrible blouse, skirt, and shoes combination Eames had gleefully picked out, which had had Arthur cringing in disgust, now paired together with the hair, the make-up, the bitchy, entitled personality -- Eames is virtually unrecognisable. His broad shoulders are disguised by Lucinda’s large, soft-looking breasts and the thickness in her hips, balancing the silhouette into an hourglass shape that suits the character perfectly.

“You like it, darlin’?” Eames drawls in a perfect Southern twang as Arthur wipes tears from the corners of his eyes.

“It’s perfect,” Arthur allows, little snorts of laughter escaping from between lips he has pressed tight in a futile bid to regain some control.

“All right!” Eames purrs, voice high and whiny, nothing like his usual husky rasp that makes Arthur warm in all sorts of places. Eames’ eyes look enormous, outlined in charcoal grey and swathed in black mascara. His lush mouth looks irresistible, shining as it is with lip gloss; fuck it, Arthur thinks, presses closer and kisses it, licks the gloss off until it’s smeared all over both their mouths and chins, until Eames’ lips are red and shining with Arthur’s spit, until he makes a small noise and melts against Arthur, until they’re both pressed against the blank walls and Eames tugs him even closer.

They make out for a little while, before Eames gentles the kiss until it loses its urgent edge and is simply a gentle but thorough exploration of each other’s lips, of discovering the things that make Eames exhale harshly and Arthur groan into Eames’ mouth. Arthur doesn’t stop him when he pulls back, mindful of Eames’ plea from last night. He does, however, spend a few minutes with his forehead pressed against Eames’, breathing into the warm space between their mouths, basking in the way one of Eames’ hands cradles the nape of his neck and the other runs strong, possessive fingers over Arthur’s hip. It’s close, and intimate, and just damn near perfect.

Twenty minutes later, make-up re-touched and all signs of kissing Arthur senseless erased, Eames strolls into the nearest branch of Barclays, hips swaying and handbag swinging, face composed into a disaffected sneer. Another twenty minutes after that, Eames walks out and calmly retraces his steps back to his flat, five grand tucked into the lining of his handbag. That should keep him going long enough to get his aliases in order and get a job in this city. He doesn’t have many skills that translate well enough to legitimate employment, but he’s always been good at showing people what they want to see, so he reckons he’ll do better than most in something like advertising or marketing. All he has to do is forge a degree from somewhere innocuous, like Manchester Metropolitan University, far off enough that they won’t check beyond first glance, yet fairly well respected. Easy.

He whistles happily as he makes his way to his new home, to change and go find Arthur at the restaurant. Weeks and months and years stretch before him, filled with days like today, with easy strolls, idle chats, a familiar warm hand held snugly in his. He grins to himself. Life is looking up at last.

\---

Arthur is woken up on the first day of August by a shard of summer sun glinting playfully in his eyes. He tries to roll over and bury his head under the duvet -- which usually works, but. When he flops over the spare pillow, a single honey-blond hair lifts on the air current and drifts down slowly, coming to rest over the striped sheets. The sight of it breaks his heart a little. Ninety-eight days since Eames disappeared, and Arthur still feels that aching emptiness under his breastbone that no amount of friendly chats with Ariadne, his mother visiting, and burying himself in work can fill. It’s as if a part of him is missing; like he’s waiting for a train that won’t ever come.

He closes his eyes in defeat and pushes the covers off, rolling over to sit tiredly on his side of the bed. His sheets no longer smell of Eames; he dies another small death every time he fumbles them in the washing machine with shaking hands. The first time had been the worst; he’d held out for three weeks and six days before he’d given up and stuffed the balled-up sheets in his laundry bag, hauling them down the street and cramming them into the washing machine, pressing the On button before he’d had time to talk himself out of it yet again. He’d regretted it already a fraction of a second later, but the deed was done.

He’d spent the last three months purposefully avoiding cleaning under his bed, because that would mean that his stubborn pride would make him dig out the sweatpants and T-shirt Eames had worn that first night, and take them to be washed, too, and he wasn’t sure he could bear that. He had no idea if it was possible to get more pathetic than this, but knowing his track record, it probably was.

He pushes listlessly off his bed and walks to the bathroom to take a leak and brush his teeth. He shaves, absentminded swipes of the razor, splashes lukewarm water over his face and stands staring unseeingly into the mirror while it drips down his chest, leaving trails of water to mix with the sweat already gathering over his skin. August in the city is brutal every year, and this one is no exception.

He showers automatically, leaving the dial on cold to no avail -- the water is cool at best, and does nothing to refresh him. If he’s honest, nothing really does these days; but he’s avoiding being honest with himself, because that would mean having to accept that Eames might have gone away for good, and -- yeah, pathetic, tell him about it.

He trails water into his bedroom, drying his hair haphazardly and letting his skin air-dry while he picks out a pair of slacks and a button-down shirt from the closet. His fingers stray towards a white one with pale blue pinstripes; they hover without touching it, Eames’ laughing face flashing painfully through his mind, before settling on a mint-coloured one instead. He dresses quickly before stepping in front of the full-length mirror in the hall and slicking back his hair with quick, detached movements. He allows his gaze to stray to the faded postcard stuck in one corner, a lovely view of one of the city’s parks, before turning away to pull on his lightweight oxfords. He doesn’t need to read it, anyway; the words are carved into his mind, in big black letters that overall translate to a ‘so long, and thanks for all the fish’.

What the fuck kind of message was “I’ll be back”, anyway? No ‘I’ve just got to do this thing’, or, hell, even ‘it’s my grandmother’s funeral next week’, even that lame-ass excuse would be better than those stupid three words scribbled in Eames’ rushed handwriting, some of the letters nothing more than scratches. Arthur had gone through every emotion since he found it, from blinding fury to soul-rendering pain to all-consuming hope and equally all-consuming despair. He can’t stand to look at the writing any longer; every time he does, his treacherous mind supplies image after image of Eames lazily filling in the Sunday crossword with sure, elegant swipes of the pen, grinning at him over a pair of horn-rimmed glasses he’d dredged up from god knew where.

He’d found the note when he’d gone to Eames’ apartment on a Thursday evening, bringing dinner since Eames had called that morning to say he had to stay at work late. He’d known something was off the second he’d pushed open the front door -- the copy of Lord Leighton’s Flaming June that Eames had painted last month was gone from the wall across the hall. He’d stormed through to the living room to see all traces of Eames wiped away, the place dark and empty, just like it had been when they’d first found it earlier that month. The postcard had been tucked into the hallway mirror, just like it is in Arthur’s flat, a view of the park where they’d had a picnic just three days earlier. Arthur had told Eames he loved that place, but of course Eames had already somehow known, the way he always seemed to know everything about Arthur without Arthur telling him, even had Arthur’s favourite foods all laid out over the checkered blanket in preparation. Eames had known him in the same way Arthur knows every person who walks through the front door of his restaurant, instinctively and without question. Not having him here any longer is-- hard.

Arthur grimaces and looks away from the dark circles that seem to have set up permanent residence under his eyes these days, fetches his satchel and leaves the house. He has work to do.

The fact that he can’t remember when he last took a day off, or that he’s been open more hours than closed in the last two months is irrelevant. It’s making up for the month before that, when he’d barely gone in to the restaurant one day in three. He doesn’t like to think about that time -- he’s never liked feeling helpless, or hopeless, and he hates that Eames still makes him feel this way, even though he’d only known the man a third of the time he’s been gone.

Ariadne is waiting for him when he trudges to the front door an hour later, clutching at a large coffee, the only thing he can’t make himself (he hasn’t drunk tea in months), and she purses her lips at the sight of him, but doesn’t say a thing. Arthur sends her a small, grateful smile as he unlocks the metal security door and then the restaurant’s front door, waving her in before him.

“So, what are you in the mood for today?” he asks as she settles in her usual seat at the bar. “Pancakes or waffles?”

Ariadne eyes him with unabashed concern. “Don’t you know?” she asks in dismay.

Arthur opens his mouth to tell her that yes, of course he does, when the truth blindsides him and tumbles out over his lowered defences. “Not really. I mean, I do, but-- I’m not sure if you want pancakes more than waffles.”

“Oh thank god,” Ariadne sags in relief. “That’s okay, neither do I, I’ve been wondering all the way down here, and I still can’t make up my mind. Could we maybe--”

“Have both? Absolutely,” he says, smiling at her beaming face.

She settles in with her books, thanking Arthur absentmindedly when he plops a large mug of milky coffee in front of her before he busies himself whisking batter and letting the peace of his kitchen settle over him, soothing the gnawing ache perpetually somewhere behind his sternum.

The chime over the door tinkles as it opens fifteen minutes later, just as he’s setting up the waffle irons. A young woman skips inside, blonde curls dancing around her shoulders as she makes her way to the counter.

“Good morning, Ari! Morning, Arthur!” she says sunnily, the corners of her eyes crinkling in a smile.

“Morning, Laurie,” they say in unison, and the three of them giggle like teenagers.

“Oooh, waffles! You strike again, boy wonder! I’ve been craving some since I woke up!”

“He’s making pancakes, too,” Ariadne says, sighing happily.

Laurie moans theatrically. “Marry me, Arthur! I’ll make you a wonderful wife! Eames doesn’t deserve you!”

All three of them wince at her words. Laurie’s eyes cross as she glares down at her own mouth like it has betrayed her. Arthur loves her, but she has a ‘think before you speak’ issue, in that she doesn’t.

“Oh god, I’m sorry,” Laurie whimpers, biting her lower lip.

“Don’t worry about it,” Arthur waves her off, trying for nonchalant. All she’s done is draw attention to the huge pink tutu-wearing elephant in the room, and last Arthur checked, that’s not a crime. Being gullible is, possibly, but he’s not going there. Takes one to know one. Driven by an impulse he doesn’t quite understand, and because he needs something to do with his suddenly shaking hands, he pours brown sugar and butter in a pan over the flame and stirs until the sugar dissolves, quickly chopping three bananas in thick circles.

Laurie and Ariadne exchange a significant look, and Ariadne sighs explosively.

“You’d better tell him,” she says, looking back down at her textbook.

“Tell me? Tell me what?” Arthur asks, heart sinking, if possible, even lower.

Laurie grimaces. “I didn’t want to get your hopes up, Arthur, but you know Eames’ flat? The lease Eames took out ran out last month, and Sophia was all set to put it back on the market, but then she got a bank transfer with strict instructions to keep it available. It was from the same account as the first transfer.”

“Huh” is all Arthur says, ruthlessly stamping down on the dizzying rush of hope stemming from Laurie’s words. He flips the ready waffles over onto two plates, drizzles them with maple syrup and spoons half of the caramelised bananas on top. He places them in front of the two girls, enjoying their rapturous moans as they dig in.

“Oh my god, just like mum used to make,” Laurie says with her mouth full, huffing a deep sigh of satisfaction. Ariadne hums and nods in agreement, but doesn’t actually stop chewing. Arthur watches them for a little while, feeling some of his equilibrium being restored.

He’s flipping a third pancake over when the door jangles again. He doesn’t look up until he’s spooned the batter for the next one into the sizzling pan, but he does hear the clatter of Ariadne dropping her fork into the plate and the sudden charged silence from the counter. He takes the pan off the heat, just in case, and turns around.

Eames looks much too thin, standing tentatively just inside the front door, at least five days of stubble darkening his jaw. He bears more than a passing resemblance to the first time Arthur had seen him all those months ago, minus the ‘thrown in a ditch’ part of the equation. The haunted look is back in his eyes, but it’s disappearing by the moment, the more they stare at each other. He looks-- haggard is the word that comes to mind, his pallor is almost unhealthy, and the bags under his eyes rival Arthur’s for the title of ‘about to fall over from exhaustion’.

“Um,” Ariadne says, and the moment is broken. Eames walks over to the counter, carefully lifting himself onto the third stool.

“Hi,” he says lamely. His voice is hoarse from lack of sleep, and possibly yelling, Arthur can’t be sure.

Arthur can’t actually speak. He braces himself against the chopping block at his back, relieves his weakening knees from some of his weight lest he folds to the floor before he notices.

“We’re just gonna... yeah,” Ariadne says, as she throws her books back into her bag, grabs Laurie’s arm and drags her out the door. Arthur barely notices; all his attention is locked on cataloguing the changes the past three months have wrought in Eames. Apart from his drawn appearance, he looks fine -- no visible injuries, no permanent damage. His worn clothes hang off his slimmer frame; Arthur has to suppress an urge to stuff him full of hearty food and warm milk and bundle him in his softest blanket. That much hasn’t changed, then.

Without a word Arthur straightens, breaks eye contact only as long as it takes him to roll up the ready pancakes with some of the caramelised bananas and drench them in maple syrup, placing the plate in front of Eames gently and pushing a knife and fork into his hands. The moment their skin touches sends an electric current through him; instead of jerking his hand back, Arthur wants to wrap his entire body around Eames’ hand, to let the feel of it sink through to his very core, kick-starting his heart out of hibernation and back to life.

Eames catches his breath sharply, grabbing onto Arthur’s hand for dear life. Arthur drops the knife and fork and turns his palm so that his fingers lace with Eames’, holding tight, as if letting go would make Eames disappear again.

“Oh, god, Arthur,” Eames forces out, and it sounds like the words are hurting him, like his heart might be pumping double-time, just like Arthur’s is. Arthur closes his eyes and concentrates on the feel of Eames’ skin under his fingers, the heat of it, the way the small hairs on the back of his hand tickle his fingertips.

“What the hell took you so long?” Arthur chokes, because he’s been waiting and waiting for this moment, and now that it’s here, it’s all he can do not to vault the counter and fall on Eames like he’s been touch-starved, and Eames is his only salvation.

Eames closes his eyes, lips thin where he’s pressing them tightly together. “I had to know you were safe,” he whispers, tightening his hold until it’s almost painful, like it anchors him in the here-and-now. “They came after me. I knew they would eventually, but I never expected it to be so soon-- I thought I had time. I had to bargain with them -- one last job, and we’d be square. Only that last job... well, they’re dead now. Hell, _I’m_ dead now. I died three days ago, falling off a cliff in Mexico. Just so you know.” There’s the ghost of a smile curling his lips. He looks almost hopeless again, like he had before Arthur had got it through to him that it was fine, they had time, he wasn’t going anywhere. Arthur wants to hurt someone for putting that look back on his face.

He clutches at Eames’ hand -- it’s warm and solid, he feels the pulse thumping under his thumb, a little frantic, matching Arthur’s for speed -- very much alive.

“What now?” Arthur says, drinking in Eames’ face, sunken cheeks and all.

Eames sighs tiredly; his thumb strokes over Arthur’s knuckles as if he’d never left. “I’m done. It’s over. The job with Ivanov’s crew was the biggest I’d done in a year, and the only one that’s gone sour for twice that time, so there shouldn’t be anyone else coming after me. Edmond Graves is gone, I’ve scrapped that ID, and he’s presumed dead. No one will come looking for plain old William Eames.”

“William,” Arthur breathes, and Eames stiffens for a moment before slumping forward against the counter, pressing their foreheads together. Eames trusts him, Arthur realises, trusts him with his real name, with everything. He feels almost giddy with happiness.

“I thought,” Eames starts hesitantly, then seems to gather himself. “I extended the lease on the flat for a year to start with,” he says, pulling back to look at Arthur’s face, gauging his reaction. “I was hoping that we might-- that you might--” He huffs in frustration, eyes shifting away for a moment. “The thing is, there hasn’t been a single moment that I haven’t thought about you, not in three-odd months. I couldn’t even eat -- nothing tastes right without you. It’s just.” He looks back at Arthur, and seems to lose his train of thought. “I’m all yours,” he says at last, simple, more open than Arthur has ever seen him, determination warring with heartbreaking vulnerability in his eyes. “If you still want me, that is. And even if you don’t. I’m still yours. Always will be, I’m afraid.”

Arthur is seriously worried that his heart might burst out of his chest at any moment now. Eames holds his gaze and lifts the hand held tightly in his, brushes a kiss against the knuckles he’s been stroking; Arthur’s breath stutters at the achingly familiar caress. He leans forward, replacing his hand with his lips, kissing Eames like he’s drowning and Eames is the fresh air he craves; he relearns the contours of Eames’ mouth, the way his lips feel when they part to let Arthur inside, the way Eames makes a soft sound in his throat when Arthur nips at his lower lip with his teeth, the way kissing Eames feels like coming home, even if he’s never left.

Later, he will take Eames home and kiss him again, undress him slowly, run his hands over prominent ribs and hipbones and vertebra, take him apart with his fingers and his mouth and his body, welcome him back into the hollow space he left behind when he disappeared to keep Arthur safe.

Later still, they’re going to go back to the empty apartment and make it feel like home again. Arthur is going to cook to his heart’s content, and feed Eames choice morsels from delicious meals until he’s satisfied that Eames no longer looks half-starved, and stops wearing Arthur’s clothes, because that’s just not right; until he’s back to being a solid weight that wraps around Arthur at nights and acts as his own personal space heater. And then he’s going to feed him some more.

In a year or a month, they’re going to take stock and decide they only need the one apartment, and they’re going to argue and bicker about which flat has the more spacious closet for all of Arthur’s clothes, and which bedroom can fit a bigger bed, and which room they can turn into Eames’ office, and whether there’s space for a pantry in one of the kitchens. And then they’re going to call Ariadne and Laurie and Dana and Yusuf and all their friends, and they’re going to have a packing up and moving party.

For now, though, Arthur smiles joyfully into Eames’ mouth and basks in contentment. Then, after he has kissed him breathless, he pushes the knife and fork at him again and directs him to eat every last bite. He pours Eames a glass of milk with just a touch of coffee, sweet and creamy, with the slightest bite. Eames polishes all of it off, smiling sappily at Arthur all the while as Arthur tidies up and closes the place down for the next few days.

“Not to say that this wasn’t delicious, love, because it _was_ , Christ, it was _amazing_ , but--it’s not--” Eames trails off, looking embarrassed.

“One of ‘your’ foods? I know, Eames,” Arthur grins, watches Eames beam at him in response. “It’s one of ours.”

And the way Eames smiles at him, his heart in his eyes, Arthur knows that he’s going to happily spend the rest of his life discovering things to add to this new category.


End file.
